


The Path to Paradise

by confusedkayt



Series: Closer To God [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: But a little less glacial, Charged domesticity, Chiyoh is so done, First Kiss, He who snuggles the devil, M/M, Negotiations, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Slow Burn, The second grimmest kind of fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-01 16:45:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5213321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confusedkayt/pseuds/confusedkayt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will and Hannibal got stuck in a holding pattern for the first few weeks of their recovery after Wrath of the Lamb.  They're learning how to be near each other, how to speak and to touch without wounding, but their balancing act is as frustrating as it is lovely.  When the neighbors get too nosy and force them to seek new shelter, they are forced to find a balance that accounts for a world with more than two people in it.</p><p>Follows up on "Closer to God" and "Heavenly Bodies," which are immediate codas to "The Wrath of the Lamb."  You could probably jump right in here if you really wanted.  :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The smell is soothing, and the sounds of the hustle-bustle of little lives in even this excuse for a forest. The trees with leaves have long since shed them, and the thin-trunked pines don’t provide much in the way of cover. They’ve ventured pretty far from the house. They always do on Wednesdays, the better to avoid the grocery service. Usually they’d have been and gone, but unless Will’s missed the rumble of the truck they’re lingering, today. It’s put both he and Hannibal on edge and they’ve already prowled about as far as they’d better, unless they want to risk running into the neighbors.

Hannibal slows, clears a light dusting of snow off a fallen tree with his handkerchief. He sits with transparently feigned casualness. The invitation is clear, just short of a command. Will takes it anyway, leans his weight back carefully onto the trunk. It bows beneath them, but not enough to worry about.

Hannibal’s face is open, half-smiling at a fat squirrel who made a badly-executed leap and is scrabbling to get his hind legs back on a sturdy branch. The tension’s mostly gone from him now that Will is resting. It’s taken some getting used to. In his own way, Hannibal is a mother hen. He’s as meticulous about Will’s recovery as he is about everything else, gentle and unrelenting and always in arm’s reach.

Now, he’s probably regretting wearing a camel coat; the bark of their seat is damp and crumbling besides. The afternoon will likely find him frowning at the badly-behaved portable steam cleaner in the bedroom closet. The thought would be settling, but with every passing minute the possibility that their afternoon will be something quite different grows sharper.

Hannibal looks at him sidelong. The pause is an invitation to speak. Will finds he doesn't want to. It’s been building for a while, and he’s been doing his best to ignore it. He had known it was overdue when some brave soul rang the bell a couple days back, finally leaving a green bean casserole and an invitation to a holiday party on the welcome mat. And now the grocers are lingering. If they haven’t been spotted they soon will.

Will cups his free hand around the elbow that’s been tightly bound to his side, supported. Hannibal’s mouth turns down, and he almost feels cruel for reminding him of the results of their last adventure beyond a tight world of two. His shoulder may never be the same.

The familiar anger, low and tight in his gut, feels almost distant now, overlaid with nigh on six weeks of careful calm. He knows it can’t last, that it shouldn’t. Still, he wants it, the sticky-heavy ooze of it building around them like amber to keep them perfectly preserved just like this.

Will looks up at the whisp-grey sky and sighs. It’s over now, he knows, ready or not. Hannibal shifts beside him, just enough to brush their shoulders together, a silent prompting. Eventually, he takes it up. “My afterlife isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

Hannibal’s smile is evident in his voice. “You walk the earth unobserved and unmolested, surrounded by the bounties of nature.” And then, more serious, just a little sad, “if this is not your paradise, what do you find wanting?”

“Permanence,” and that slides right out of him, fully-formed and too honest. Hannibal shifts to lean against him. Will doesn’t turn to look at him. “How about you? This can’t be your idea of a good time.”

“Can’t it?” and it is warm and amused.

Will snorts. “I guess it’s all relative.” Dangerous territory, as though there is anything else between them. They are too on-edge, just now, to delve into Hannibal’s last living situation without landing some blows. This might well be their last walk in these woods, and Will doesn’t want to remember anything but the quiet. He half-turns to look at Hannibal, to let him see it. He can do that much.

Hannibal’s sharp eyes soften as he looks. He remains warm and easy against Will’s side, allows a pause. “This life after death is quite satisfactory. The iron wires have been plucked from me,” he says, holding Will’s eyes. “I find that I am not anxious to rush the rest of my journey.”

Will lets his mouth kick up at the corners. “You should come with Cliff Notes.”

Hannibal raises a brow. “You shouldn’t need them.” _You never have_ goes unsaid but felt.

“I just might, if you keep talking Dante at me.”

Hannibal’s smile widens, then, entirely smug. “You have adventured beyond the Inferno.”

“Self-defense,” Will says, with a lightness that is almost genuine.

The distant rumble of the grocery truck saves him for now, but it’s only a temporary reprieve. Already, Hannibal has taken to ‘accidentally’ leaving French dictionaries on the end tables in the living room. Now they will be joined by Italian. Or would be, if they were staying. “I know we can’t stay.”

“No,” Hannibal agrees and there is regret in him, at least. He rises, cupping a hand gently under Will’s elbow, an unnecessary support. “Our time here has exposed the limitations of empty places. Even the solitary crave knowledge of their neighbors, it seems.”

“Not quite empty enough,” Will says, a little too rough. No place ever has been. Not Wolf Trap, Molly’s place, and not here, a kill house awkwardly modified for healing.

“I had thought to spend the winter with you in Montana, but I fear it would be more of the same.” Honest regret, again. Will finds he’s grateful for it.

Still, he scuffs his boot in the thin snow as they walk. A little mark that he was here. It’s as temporary as their stay. “That would have been nice,” and he can picture it. A cabin, a fireplace. A bigger kitchen, to keep Hannibal content. Silence and the smell of pine and snow.

“You will also enjoy Bangkok, I hope.” Eyes on him, gauging his reaction.

“Bangkok.” He’d like a little time to let the idea settle, but time’s one thing they don’t have. He can’t even muster up the energy to be angry that this is the first he’s hearing of it, not when he’s been so stubbornly set on ignoring the world beyond their little patch of land.

“It is far from here and full of comings and goings of much more interest than two foreigners,” and Hannibal’s attention is still heavy, waiting. He would probably take no for an answer. “For my part, I will appreciate the warmth.”

He doesn’t know the slightest bit about Bangkok, and Hannibal probably knows it. No good reason to say no is the same as yes, maybe. Still, he buys a little time. “I guess this is a bad time to mention that I didn’t bring my passport.”

Hannibal’s mouth and eyes tilt sly. “It is in my desk drawer, Mr. Michael Hunt.”

Will snorts. “Subtle.”

“It’s common enough,” he says, the picture of unconvincing innocence. “As is Maksim Volkov.”

“Sounds like an energy drink,” he says, and Hannibal’s face slides into injured neutrality. Will half-grins at him. “Bangkok. Sure. Why not.” A couple of steps. “How will we get there?”

It’s enough to mollify. Hannibal never could resist an opportunity to show off. “By car and boat and automobile,” he says, and these little mysteries never lead to anything good, not when Hannibal is so pleased with them.

“I do like to sail,” Will says, mild. A volley, just enough to show interest, but he won’t ask, not so easily.

“Perhaps you will catch our dinner,” and Will refuses to rise to the bait.

“Better get some tackle in port,” is all he offers. Hannibal looks at him, amused and sidelong. “Don’t think I won’t fish with your caviar.”

“An admirable use for leftovers,” and his voice is warm even as he tenses up next to Will, the way he always does when they pass the little patch where Will buried his wedding ring. He regrets it, now - it had felt important, a funeral for his past life. He should have anticipated the way it would snag Hannibal’s attention, persistently and in ways that taste too much like danger.

“Of course you’re planning to cook on the boat,” he says, careful to be keep his voice warm, his words focused on now, on the future. Focused on Hannibal, and not on things he prays they’ll both continue to pretend to ignore.

Hannibal’s mouth curls up, but it’s not echoed in his eyes. Still, he says, “I begin to fear that you hold out hope for prepackaged sandwiches,” and it’s genial enough, at least outwardly.

“I’m holding out for sandwiches at all,” and he can’t help but prod at his cheek with his tongue. Hannibal clucks at him, but it only hurts a little, now. He’s been careful as he can, and the mouth heals quickly. His face is another story.

“The wait will continue, unless the grocer has ignored my order altogether,” still with that hint of forced cheer. Will is almost glad that the house is in sight, for their silent agreement to approach quietly on the off-chance their lingering grocer left something sinister behind.

This, too, crackles with danger, the way they move in step and wary like pack hunters, and Will doesn’t know what he’ll do if Jack has come for them at last, or sent agents. He should know, he’d like to, but instead he suspects and he fears and that’s much worse.

They step inside, and his breath comes a little easier. It doesn’t feel like anyone is in the house, that anything has happened. Still, he keeps a sharp eye on the door behind them. Hannibal sets off on an efficient survey of their little collection of rooms. Will can’t help himself, and checks for bugs, just in case. There aren’t any, of course, not under the table or on the sill. There’s nothing sinister at all, just a little decorative spread of cookies under a miniature Christmas tree and a carefully displayed set of pamphlets and coupons from the Chamber of Commerce welcome wagon. A friendly gesture. In this, this life he’s chosen, it feels like a threat.

Hannibal’s smile fades as he enters the kitchen, catches Will’s mood. “There will be other places,” and maybe it’s wishful thinking, but he sounds sad, too.

“How long,” Will says, rough and not bothering to hide it.

Hannibal’s fingers brush over his good shoulder, clasp it in brief comfort. “We will stay tonight, and tomorrow.” Time enough for farewells.

“Well then, I guess I’d better go pack,” and he’s not fooling anybody. Hannibal squeezes his shoulder again, lingering. “Unless you’d like help in the kitchen.”

“Go,” Hannibal says, and anyone else would think he was full of good cheer. Will just appreciates the effort. “I will surprise you.”


	2. Chapter 2

There is not enough room in the car. The trunk is crammed full of coolers and baskets and a crate of wine and spirits. The back seat is ordered chaos, their surprisingly numerous possessions sliding out of neat stacks with the motion of travel, now a jumble of garment bags and suitcases and even two cardboard boxes that Hannibal had disapproved of on principle but tolerated in the name of preventing waste and erasing evidence. Physical reality has once again bent itself to reflect the truth of the situation. Overstuffed. Unsettled. Oppressive. Even the sky is grey.

Hannibal’s lips are thin, his fingers carefully not pressed to the steering wheel. He’s given up on conversation long ago. Will knows he is not fit for it. Not fit for much, right at the moment. Each breath tastes of effort.

He has tried to convince himself that nothing of substance has changed. They are as contained in the car as they were in the kill house. Quarantined. But it is harder to believe the lie when they are surrounded by the ordinary business of life, commuters and vacationers and driver’s ed. The car is full of doomed policemen and Bedelia’s sharp perfume. The possibility of violence, the ugly realities he had allowed himself to ignore for weeks and weeks. They are loose on the world.

Hannibal merges smoothly onto an exit. He gives no sign that he has noticed that Will tenses as he does so, but Will knows he has noticed.

Will flicks his eyes to the fuel gage - still more than a quarter-tank. They breeze past the filling-stations that cluster by the off-ramp. He forces his shoulders to relax. It is broad daylight. Hannibal is cautious, and there is no taste of danger in the air. He is borrowing trouble, and if he is not careful, the loan may be called in.

Their little car glides down an access road marked with signs for a state park. Hannibal rolls down the window, drops some cash into a battered brown lockbox. Their car is the only one in the lot. Will breathes a little easier.

It’s not much to look at, a few trees and a boat launch, a small stretch of beach made uninviting by the wan light filtered through gathering clouds. Hannibal exits the car wordlessly.

Will joins him at the open trunk. He holds out his good hand to take the hamper Hannibal has fished out. “Thank you,” Hannibal murmurs, and flicks the lid open. He takes removes a few items, wiping them carefully with a dishtowel he has produced from somewhere or other before settling them into the hamper and closing the lid. Will shifts the handles to carry and Hannibal tugs at it. Will tugs back and earns himself a narrow-eyed look, but he doesn’t let go.

Hannibal’s nostrils flare and faint disgust flashes across his face. The battered little picnic table _is_ in awfully close proximity to the restrooms, primitive as they are. Just chemical toilets, most likely, in a battered state park like this one, out of the way and in the off-season to boot. “You can smell it, can’t you,” Will says. It comes out too flat, only a little warm.

Hannibal repays in kind. “I am astonished that you can’t.” There are petulant crinkles around his mouth.

Will jerks his chin toward a beat-up bench at the edge of the beach, mounted on triangles of wood to allow for swinging while enjoying the view. “We could eat on that, if you don’t mind sand in your shoes.”

Hannibal looks torn, glancing at the little picnic cloth tucked over his arm. It’s too fancy by half, nothing to keep the damp out. He settles it back into the trunk and clicks it closed. He moves again to take the hamper. Will lets him, this time.

Hannibal makes his efficient way to the swing. Will takes his time following, hiking shoes sinking into the sand. Bad enough that there is no table. Will knows he is not the only one who is unsettled. Hannibal will want to plate their lunch just so, imposing his brand of order as best he can.

The smell and the noise of the sea do nothing to help settle Will, and no wonder. Their last meeting had been designed to be terminal, had instead been excruciating. In dark moments, Will wonders if their sins were too great to be washed out by the sea.

Here it laps gently, hardly foreboding. Perhaps the fresh air is helping after all. It is easier to look at Hannibal, frowning into the bench swing in a comfortably familiar way.

Will picks his way over, and as he approaches Hannibal finishes fussing over a small foldout table, more of a tea tray, balanced precariously in the center of the swing. He gestures for Will to sit. Will moves to do so, but the swing is moving a little, and the plates are too precariously balanced to risk the lurch that he is sure to cause with an ungraceful descent. Hannibal is watching him, face blank; his anticipation is obvious nonetheless. For a moment Will is tempted to deny him and take his chances sitting unaided, but the thought of Hannibal’s reaction if his carefully placed plates crash to the sand stays him. This day’s bad enough without outright picking a fight. “Will you hold that steady?” he asks, jerking his chin at the tea-tray. A pause, barely-there but Will feels it like a slap. “Please,” he says, more exhausted than the coy pretense Hannibal prefers so strongly that he’s got used to providing almost automatically. It would feel false in front of the sea.

The facsimile is enough to deepen the smug crinkles at the corner of Hannibal’s eyes. He steps forward and bends in a way that can’t be good for him, bracing the tea tray with one hand and offering Will his other elbow for support. He clutches just a little too hard, vindictive, but gets lowered down without further incident. It’s his turn to brace the tray, and he digs his heels into the sand for good measure. The swing is still not terribly stable and there is some bobbling, the alarming clink of china, as Hannibal sits. He feels far away, with the tray between them.

For a moment it’s almost easy - the way Hannibal fusses over the placement of little glass jars atop real plates, laden with a crispy salad and dark shallots. He passes a plate to Will and makes a checked little noise when one shallot makes a break for freedom and slides into an artful daub of mustard. “Looks good,” Will says, and Hannibal allows himself to settle, the barest of pauses before he passes napkin rolled around knife and fork.

It is good, very - some kind of buttery, tender pork in the glass. He watches as Hannibal arranges a careful bite, shallot and pork and mustard, and follows suit. Hannibal flicks a guilty glance toward the hamper. Crackers, probably. Maybe even toast. He jerks his chin at the hamper. “Don’t hold back on my account,” and there isn’t too much spite in it, even.

Hannibal’s mouth ticks down. “Although potted pork is traditionally served with toast points, they would irritate your cheek.”

“Sandwiches,” and he’s aiming for teasing. “I knew you’d give in.” Hannibal blinks at him before closing the hamper decisively. Will almost repeats his offer for Hannibal to go right ahead, but the tension in Hannibal’s posture stops him. Nothing easy today.

He’s got a hell of a balancing act to distract them. The swing isn’t terribly stable and it would be hard to wrangle the glass and a fork with one hand under the best of circumstances. Hannibal’s managing a little more gracefully, but Will can’t spare much attention if he hopes to stave off disaster. It’s a near thing. The sting of the spices and brandy against his still-tender cheek helps focus him, at least.

After a while, Hannibal gestures for his plate. The shallots are gone, but there is still pork lingering in the curve of the glass, too hard to capture. It’s a shame to waste it. “It’s really good,” he says, and resists the urge to make one more pass at it. Hannibal looks pleased, even if it’s faint. He has little caps for the glasses, and wipes to collect stray mustard and leftover sauce from the plates and forks. It’s clear that an offer of help wouldn’t be welcome, so Will just settles back in the swing and tries to find some peace in the sounds of the sea.

When he sneaks a place at Hannibal, he has that look he gets when something is failing to live up to his expectations. A problem with dessert, maybe. The swing rocks as he fusses around in the hamper, finally extricating a couple of cups and a bottle damp with condensation. He is focused as he pours, presses a cup into Will’s hand. He takes a grateful sip - water, with some lemon and mint in it, because even hydration can be a production if there’s a will. Will snorts, and Hannibal looks at him sidelong but doesn’t inquire.

The silence between them is the insidious, heavy thing it’s been all day, so different from the comfortable quiet he’d allowed himself to get used to back at the house. He works his way through the water, but Hannibal does not seem inclined to steer the conversation, for once. Another unfamiliar thing in a day far too full of them. “I can take a turn driving,” Will offers, finally. Serves Hannibal right.

“That is not necessary,” and there’s an edge of irritation.

“You’ve already denied me three times,” and even the hint of a joke doesn’t erase Hannibal’s faint frown. “Come on, you must be tired. It’s been hours.”

Hannibal’s gaze is fixed on the water, a hint of tightness around his jaw. “We have made good time,” like that’s not a non sequitur and Will is abruptly, thoroughly angry.

“Afraid I’ll drive us right into the sea?” and it’s bitter and he doesn’t miss the way Hannibal freezes, just for a second, just enough to give himself away.

He has enough of a reign on his temper that he only says, “Let’s go,” even if he does shove up from the swing in an abrupt motion that sets Hannibal to clutching at the tea tray to stabilize it. Will takes advantage of his distraction to snatch the hamper. He knows he’s not helping, that his behavior borders on the childish, but it’s all he can do to keep a lid on his nerves and Hannibal has been a blank wall all day and it heightens every half-formed fear that he’s got. He’d allowed himself to get comfortable, somehow, used to the rhythms of the house, to the predictable rhythms of sleep and kitchen and library and now they’re dashed to pieces and Hannibal, Hannibal has never been happy to let Will stay as he is. Will’s not ready for whatever frightful new chapter of change Hannibal is concocting, certainly not when he’s still hurting and wrung out. Not when he’s just found his footing. Foolish - criminally stupid - to let himself get so comfortable. He thought he’d guarded against it but he’s learning better now, difference after unwelcome difference and here they are anyway, like it or not.

Hannibal catches up to him before he gets to the car. He opens the trunk and takes the hamper from Will without comment, but his posture is stiff. Will lets himself sigh, long and tired. “I think I should take a nap,” he says, and he almost means _I’m sorry._

“Perhaps that would be best,” Hannibal allows, still blank but without much in the way of anger behind it.

Will doesn’t snap at Hannibal when he herds Will over to the passenger’s side, opens the door, hands him in. He even allows Hannibal to settle a blanket around him once he’s settled in the car. If his sleep is fake, just closed eyes and blessed silence, for who knows how long, well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long lag between chapters! I had about a million guests for my alma mater's quasi-homecoming and it was a surprisingly intense logistical affair.
> 
> Ah, the Angsty Car Trip. How do I love this trope, let me count the ways. I will only indulge myself for this one chapter, scout's honor. :P If nothing else, the traffic in Bangkok is murder. I cracked myself up imagining Hannibal and Will on one of the underpowered little motorbikes that seem to basically rule the roads there, but I can't really picture it.
> 
> Oh Will. You are a stroppy little creature. I drafted this chapter in a couple of ways, but in the end I was convinced that Hannibal would not be super-inclined to push conversation on Will on this day when he's in this state. The many variables that he cannot directly control are pressing on his nerves as well, and he's also feeling the loss of the little bubble of familiarity, closeness, and routine he and Will had worked their way into at the kill house. (Incidentally, I think Will was dead-on about the problems with dessert. Hannibal had made a couple of little tarts, but the crust on one of them had cracked from banging around in the trunk and it is just CHAPPING HIS HIDE.) No one is happy, and next chapter features Other People who are notably displeased to see Will Graham, so I'm afraid it's grumpy sailing for a while yet.
> 
> Thank you for your kind comments and kudos! Hope you enjoyed this chapter, as well, and catch you soon!


	3. Chapter 3

“Come on,” he says, aware that he sounds as short as he’s feeling. But Hannibal’s favoring his side, even if he’s subtle about it, stiff from 12 hours and change of bending into driving position because god forbid Will take a turn at the wheel. Like hell Hannibal’s going to take the suitcase, too. It’s a hell of a thing, vintage, of course, all leather and brass fastenings and no wheels to be found. It’s got to weigh a metric ton.

Hannibal’s jaw is tight. His hand’s on the handle beside Will’s, implacable. Please, he wants to say, but that’s a bad move. Dirty pool. It won’t land, not today, not when it’s not cushioned by comfort and familiarity.

Footsteps in the parking garage, and with no car preceding them. Here, at least, they can agree - they tense at the same time. Hannibal’s shoulders drop almost immediately, though, and he turns, smiles into the semidarkness at the back of the deck. “Hello, Chiyoh,” he says, and Will hates the unforced warmth in his voice. At least he’s the unquestioned master of the suitcase. He was right. It’s heavy as hell.

Still, he hefts it with his good arm and turns in time to see them lean in, brief kisses on both cheeks. Very European. Will grits his teeth.

Chiyoh eyes him like she just scraped him off her sandal. “Will. I did not expect to see you again.”

Hannibal crinkles at her, a hint of reproach. She’s still looking at Will, though. He’s left the pause for too long. “You look well,” he says, because it’s true, and marginally polite. His voice doesn’t sound like he wants it to. She nods, though, and that’s enough of that. He looks back at Hannibal, and it’s good and irritating in equal measure that there’s mirth mixed in with the exhaustion and strain on his face.

He steps away from the car to give them a little room, maybe to take some for himself. They’re talking, quiet, while Hannibal rummages around in the cooler again and Chiyoh stands sentinel beside him. Will observes, best he can. It’s frustrating. It was always easy to see why Hannibal liked her - she is a closed system, emotions thrumming at a low key and tightly contained. When he’d thought about it, later, he’d half-convinced himself that he’d had such trouble seeing her because he was so deeply immersed in Hannibal, in Hannibal’s past, for the brief time that he knew her. It seems that was wishful thinking. Beyond the obvious, the easily observable from her clothes and hair and posture, he can’t interpret the signals she’s sending off.

Hannibal, at least, does not treat her like a danger. He lets her in close, no attempt to steer her way from his injured side. He does try to argue with her about the garment bag, but gives in quickly with one of his shadow-smiles.

He closes the car door, and the trunk. Hannibal’s eyes catch his and then drop to the suitcase on the ground by Will’s feet. He frowns, faint. Tough. It’s too heavy to hold when they’re all just standing here. It’ll clean.

Chiyoh sets off without so much as a backward glance. Will has to scramble to heft the bag and catch up. Hannibal’s steps are slow, splitting the difference between his two companions, ever courteous. He somehow manages to make it look purposeful. He’s amused, and Chiyoh, too, though it hardly shows on their faces. In synch, in silence. The silence is the expectant sort, a pressure he doesn't feel like weathering. “So, where are we going?” When in doubt, keep it simple.

“For tonight, an apartment. It’s very near,” Chiyoh says, out loud. Her look says _and a good thing, too,_ which, fair enough. Hannibal’s gait is not seamless and Will is struggling with the heavy suitcase. They make an odd group.

“Yours?” he asks, and Chiyoh raises an eyebrow at him.

“No,” she says, and he can feel _of course not._ His eyes scrape her up and down, involuntary. No rifle, of course, and nowhere to hide a pistol in her summery outfit.

She gives Hannibal a speaking look, turns back to Will. “I rented it on AirBnB. Our host is a college student, who has already given me the keys.” Another cold, appraising glance for Will. “She will stay with a friend tonight, safe and whole.”

“That’s, that’s nice,” he manages, and he can’t read her perfectly, but he can read the irritation, contempt even, that she’s beaming at him clear as day.

It leaves him awkward in a way that used to be so familiar and isn’t any longer. His skin itches with it. He finds himself longing, again, for the quiet of the kill house, the familiar paths in the woods around it. A quick glance at Hannibal yields nothing but a bland expression, a little warm, maybe, a little concerned. He almost misses the day’s irritations.

Hannibal’s mouth tilts, the suggestion of a smile. “Tell me, Chiyoh. Do you enjoy your wanderings, now that you no longer cleave to the duties of the hearth?” A lifeline, of sorts, but full of thorns for both his listeners.

Chiyoh levels a flat look. “I have seen many things I never thought to expect,” and her eyes narrow at Hannibal’s small smile.

“One of the lucky snails,” and Will sounds too abrupt, jarring even to himself. “Out of the belly of the beast and into the wide world.”

The narrow eyes are for him now. “I have not been a snail for many years.”

Will is saved from asking what she is now, instead, when she steps in front of him, brisk, to unlock the front door to a battered little building all bland tans and faint greens. The interior is cheerless, impersonal. Holiday Inn carpets and too-bright fluorescent lighting in the hallways.

Chiyoh is impassive, Hannibal even more so. Will wonders if she can feel Hannibal’s disgust, if she enjoys it. She gives no sign either way as she starts up the carpeted stairs.

He doesn’t like the way Hannibal climbs, determined to be steady but showing the strain. This day has likely set his healing back. Will knows enough to know his anger is part worry. After all this, after all of it, it would be a hell of a thing to succumb to old bleeding or infection.

His fingers itch to check the bandages. It’s not the time, he knows, not under Chiyoh’s gaze and out in the hallway to boot. Distance, now, long steps between them and it’s strange that it feels strange, but there’s no welcome in Hannibal’s posture as Chiyoh opens one nondescript tan door. There is a frown, faint, there and gone again. It’s not hard to guess why. Even to Will, the place smells like college girl, all Bath and Body Works and scented candles layered over stale pot.

H’s suffocating with it and makes his escape, through the living room and down a narrow hallway. The first door he tries is the bathroom. There’s only one other. The bed’s neat, at least, clean Ikea linens. His fingers are stiff around the suitcase handle, pins and needles once he’s set it down. It would be awkward to jimmy the windows open one-handed even without them, but the warm fresh air in his lungs once he’s succeeded eases the weight in his chest more than it should.

Still, he steps back out into the hall. Hannibal and Chiyoh are talking in the front room, voices calm and too low to make out. He has no desire to join them. The bathroom, then.

It’s quiet, at least, and pretty well-kept. At least the girl who lives here is a little bit of a hippy. She’s lazy about it - plenty of chemicals in the bottles of strawberry Suave nestled in the chipped windowsill at the back of the shower. Microbeads in the face wash, even. But she likes to think she’s green, and a good thing too. Hannibal will probably tolerate the smell of a vinegar solution. A hell of a lot better than 409, anyway, and it will cover the lingering smell of cheap shampoo, at least a little.

The rote work is settling. That much is constant, even if he can’t quite slip all the way into it, not unless he wants to jar his shoulder. It’s absorbing, at least, working out the awkward angles he’ll need to scrub each part of the tub without bending more than he’s able.

It’s almost enough to shut out other thoughts. Almost. He’s being… avoidant. More than a little, if he’s honest with himself, and god, he’s trying to be these days. Can’t help it half the time, trapped in a house with no one but Twenty Questions Lecter for company, or he had been. Maybe that’s all right. Better to shut himself away than pick a fight. Another one. What a hell of a day.

Just destined to get better, it seems. The door opens, near-silent. It’s Chiyoh. The weight of her attention feels more appraising than hostile, at least. “I’m used to keeping my own house,” he offers, after a while.

A long pause. “You are both learning a foreign language,” and her voice is blank and even as always. “Or remembering one you had forgotten long ago.”

Will snorts and it’s too loud in the small space. “Hannibal doesn’t forget.”

She’s closer now, just at the edge of his field of vision. “He can, when he wishes.” Another pause, deliberate. Will tenses despite himself, paper towel tearing in his hand. “He chooses to remember, now.”

He can’t tell if it’s a warning, a hint, something else entirely. It hangs there, between them, until she steps back and out of his sightline. He swabs at the tub with his mangled paper towel purely to break the weight of the moment.

“Supper is almost ready,” she says after a moment, and he huffs a chuckle at the mundanity of it.

He’ll keep with the spirit of it, playing house. “What are we having?”

“He will tell you,” she says, and she’s retreating, almost gone. “Until tomorrow,” she says, and that’s… unexpected.

“You aren’t staying?”

“I will see too much of you on the boat,” and there she is, just a glimpse. A love for solitude, maybe inborn or maybe nurtured by years and years of it.

He snorts, still. “You see too much of me already.”

She doesn’t reply.

He’s still, for a moment. Turns his attention back to the tub. He’s done about as much as he usefully can, in truth. A few more swipes with the paper towel and he begins the process of rising, knees popping. He tosses the towel and washes his hands. A moment more, just one, then he squares his shoulders. Suppertime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes. Sorry about the long break between chapters. This was kind of a toughie for me, because I wanted to create a Unified Theory of Chiyoh, Three Years Later and it took me a few tries to feel good about her voice! This author's note is basically Thoughts About Chiyoh as a result (with bonus Thoughts About Will's Empathy for seasoning). I'd love to talk about her with anybody interested, and I'd be real grateful for any feedback you have on her voice and characterization in this chapter!
> 
> While I was working on this, I watched the Chiyoh scenes approximately three million times and my god, they are hilarious. Will gives such nonresponsive, creeptastic answers to relatively normal conversational gambits. No wonder she was like 900% done with him. "How do you know Hannibal?" A normal person might respond "We're close friends." Or, you know, you could just bust out with "one might argue.... intimately." Someone you hardly know who has a friend in common with you tells a couple stories about his childhood? A good time to ask her if murder keeps her up at night! Someone who has been alone for a long time indicates she'd rather not talk and makes a crack about not usually hearing voices outside her head to make that a less unkind request? Now would be a great time to say you hear voices from all directions, and make weirdly personal remarks about the "gnawing sameness of [her] days!" My favorite creepy non-sequitur was "I was violent when it was the right thing to do. But I think you like it." And Will is all, SPEAKING OF HANNIBAL WHICH WE TOTALLY WERE NO TRANSITION NEEDED, "We afforded each other an experience we may not otherwise have had." Ok, bro.
> 
> Relatedly, I got to thinking about Will's apparent failure to really connect/empathize with Chiyoh. I am certain he didn't see that push off the train coming, definitely not the bullet in his shoulder. It might be that he was just so deep in trying to empathize with Hannibal that he didn't have the bandwidth/desire to really connect to anyone else. I think part of it might also be that we usually see Will empathize with people who have something in common with him. Most commonly, that's murder-urges; I think it's interesting that you seldom see him empathize with the victims, even though that might provide evidence. For most people, he gets it wrong or doesn't bother or both; think of his stumbles with Alana or the total lack of mirroring/blending he has with Team Sassy Science for most of Season 1. Chiyoh is someone he doesn't have much common ground with. She's at a kind of double cultural remove, having come from fancy Japanese society into fancy European. I think he'd have to work to understand her feelings and motivations much harder than he usually does as a result. 
> 
> To be fair to Will, Chiyoh sometimes starts the creepy metaphor portion of the conversation. I noticed she was sort of prone to making small speeches, often tied to the natural phenomena around the Lecter Castle grounds. That makes a lot of sense, for someone who has been spending a lot of time with her own interiority in a fixed place and hasn't been making a practice of the push-pull of everyday conversation. I thought, though, that she'd shed that tendency after she had been away from Lecter Castle for a while and had a new life and changed sense of self, not to mention much less isolation. Instead, the steadiness that characterized the rest of her conversations with Will would probably take front and center. Of course, Will and Hannibal will probably drag her back into their creepy metaphor fiesta but she's not going without a fight. :P I like to think that she's been taking in new experiences and enjoying life/the money Hannibal has better have been paying her for all that groundskeeping and is none too pleased by the manner in which she's getting dragged back into the Hannibal/Will clusterfuck yet again but feels honor-bound to make good on her promises and ties to Hannibal. Still, she's not above trolling a little with the form her practicality will take. AirBnB is great if you don't want to march a couple of visibly wounded wanted criminals past a registration desk at a hotel. It's also great for messing with Hannibal's ~aesthetic~. And like hell she's going to hang around these jokers during her last night of peace and quiet for a while. I figure she spends the evening in her very nice, 100-percent-pot-smell-free hotel, taking in a couple of spa treatments and smirking into a glass of very nice chardonnay.


	4. Chapter 4

He sets his chopsticks down and it’s far too loud. Jarring, like everything about this dinner, about this whole damn day. He’s no good with them, nervous and forced into using his non-dominant hand. Hannibal’s amused instructions had harbored that edge of disguised but malicious superiority that he knows too well but hasn’t tasted in a while, and he’s strung in between the desire to mimic and the desire to needle Hannibal by getting it wrong, aggressively wrong so that there’s a matching itch under both their skins. Now a grain of rice has worked its way into the tender ridges of the wound in his cheek and it’s the last damn straw. There’s just enough good breeding left in him that he won’t pick his mouth at the table, not even to provoke. “I think I’ve had enough,” he says, and it’s much too serious.

Hannibal’s eyes flick down to the two pieces of untouched sashimi still on Will’s plate. Good. Will takes a slow breath. It’s an effort not to tongue at the wound, irritating both it and Hannibal. Still, he wiggles his jaw, lets the discomfort show just to see the hints of understanding and something like upset - no, that’s wishful thinking - flicker across Hannibal’s face. “Of course. Allow me,” and Hannibal’s taking his plate. Will nods, short, and pushes his chair back. It squeaks on the cheap flooring. If he looked at Hannibal, he’d see a frown.

“I’ll come back for the dishes,” and that’s about the limit of his manners right at the moment. He can’t fight the urge to worry at his cheek with his tongue any longer.

“There will be no need for that,” Hannibal says, smooth and a little too cool. Oh; Will’s probably derailed dessert. He’s a brackish mixture of sorry and glad. “Perhaps you instead will run a bath,” and that’s phrased like a suggestion but it isn’t one.

He wants to resist it, reflex more than anything, but he’s bone-tired and not up for a major battle, and it will be major. He feels dirty, besides, sand and car and rice and all. He nods - abrupt, again - and gets on out of the kitchen.

He closes the bathroom door behind him. It’s flimsy protection, but he’s not up to dealing with the squalid process of irrigating his scar tissue without some form of barrier between him and the world, Hannibal most definitely included.

He stares at himself, haggard and frowning, in the mirror while he fixes a little dixie cup of saline, retrieves the little rubber bulb. He holds it to the saline, squeezes, reefs around his mouth until it’s up against the stubborn rice. He’s rooted around too vigorously - blood and salt water. Delicious. At least the rice is dislodged. He bares his teeth. There’s blood oozing, coating the grooves between his bottom teeth. The sight is depressingly familiar. It hauls a chuckle out of him. Back in his natural state. The taste doesn’t even make him nauseous anymore.

He shoves the dingy little shower curtain as far back as it will go, levers down on to his knees to fiddle with the tub. A manual stopper, old as the hills. Not as old as the tub, claw-footed and solid beneath chipping white paint. At least the hot water comes quick.

The door opens behind him almost as soon as the first drops fall; Hannibal’s been waiting out there. Will doesn’t resist the urge to hunch his shoulders. Hannibal stops his approach, but only for a moment, and then he’s in Will’s space, reaching for the Dopp kit he’s left on the little bathroom cabinet. The faint pressure of fingers on the crest of his good shoulder, an intimacy disguised as a courtesy - Hannibal’s way of letting Will know where he stands, as though either one of them could be unaware.

Motion, Hannibal looming above him, and then a rich scent blooms in the bathroom. Bath oil. That’s new. He can’t place the scent. Cloves, maybe, and a host of other things. No doubt it will blend well with Hannibal’s shampoo.

“A marinade, Doctor? Should I be concerned?” and it should be playful but it comes out too flat, confrontational.

Hannibal holds out a hand to help him to his feet, gentle support under the elbow on the bad side to keep him balanced. A faint quirk of an eyebrow. “All of the senses can be coaxed to delight,” and here comes the lecture. “The ancients often incorporated scented oils into their baths to please the nose and soften the skin. The Romans, the Egyptians, even the hardy Vikings indulged in this way.”

Will snorts. “You just don’t like the smell of Suave.”

Hannibal’s face settles into a familiar mild exasperation at Will’s reductive tendencies. But then his nostrils flare, his eyes narrow. “Your cheek,” he chides, nudging Will away from the sink with his hip. He’s washing his hands and Will is not prepared, just now, for Hannibal’s fingers in his mouth, the pretense of clinical distance, the way it will leave his stomach unsettled and Hannibal darkly satisfied.

“Not right now,” he mutters, and Hannibal gives him a sharp look. He forestalls the inevitable argument by starting in on the buttons of his shirt. Hannibal’s mouth has an ornery set to it. Stronger measures will be required. “The water will get cold.”

Hannibal’s mouth, his slow blink, promise that the subject is shelved but not for long. At least he offers no further comment as Will toes out of his socks, undoes his belt and the button and fly of his pants, pushes them down along with his too-loose boxers. His skin prickles. He feels…. exposed. Observed. He is. How natural this had seemed, in the kill-house. Born, like so many things between them, of pain and necessity. Hair needed washing, wounds kept safe, unstrained and dry. How sensible, how practical, to use the resources at hand. But here, in this place, under the harsh light of the bare bulb in this borrowed bathroom, how small and withered that fig leaf seems.

The steam is harsh and heavy, clawing down his throat and sticking in his lungs. His shirt sticks, too, as Hannibal eases it over his bad shoulder, then off altogether. His toes slide on chipped tile as he’s guided to the tub, Hannibal’s hands solicitous as he helps Will over the side, down into the water. The tub is too cramped, and Will is forced to cant his knees up and out of the water. Another small change, another unexpected exposure. God, this day.

Hannibal bustles around behind him, settling on the little stool Will had dragged in for this purpose. He’s hyperaware of the drag of hands on the skin of his back, cupped full of water and then laid flat to scrub and soothe. It had been comforting yesterday, and many yesterdays before. “This tension will strain your shoulder,” Hannibal murmurs and Will nearly shudders for reasons too numerous, too enmeshed for him to tease apart.

“Long day,” he offers, short and too harsh. Hannibal’s hands still on his back. Will allows himself to wriggle, to settle back a bit. “No sponge?”

Hannibal’s fingers tighten just a little against Will’s skin. “I deemed it impractical. We will stay here only tonight.”

“Hmmm,” and it’s enough to start Hannibal’s hands back up again, carefully skirting around his bandage, slow and even and repetitive. He can’t relax into it. The bathroom is crowded, close. There are eyes on him. Hannibal’s, yes, and the girl who lives here. Chiyoh. They see what he has worked deliberately to ignore.

Hannibal’s hands have stilled. There is a rhythm to this, and he’s missing steps. He tilts his head forward so that Hannibal can more easily wet his hair but not his shoulder, damp hands carding through. There’s a tension there, not just Will’s. A loud click. He jolts a little, but it’s just the shampoo bottle. Everything is outsized. It’s hard to breathe.

The sounds of Hannibal’s hands rubbing together to work up a lather, the feel of his fingers distributing the shampoo through Will’s hair. He’s on edge and it’s ridiculous, suddenly, absolutely absurd that they go on this way. He lets his head fall back. Hannibal’s hands form a cradle to support it, and he allows Will to catch his eyes. “And what is it that we’re doing, Dr. Lecter?” he asks, and watches those eyes somehow darken and brighten all at once.

A pregnant pause. Hannibal’s eyes are searching, fingers of one hand idly slipping through Will’s soapy hair as best they can without dislodging his head. A long swallow, and Hannibal turns his head slightly, ostensibly to massage shampoo behind Will’s ear but the clear purpose is to avert his gaze. “Ritual provides context in this life, creates the bonds of society. We create our rituals, and we borrow. We celebrate the closing of the day and acknowledge the limitations of the body. We prepare ourselves as best we can for sleep.” The performance of a smile; it sets Will’s shoulders rigid. “I will admit, also, that I abhor the sensation of greasy hair against my neck.”

“You’re lying,” and that’s blunt. Hannibal’s hand freezes beneath his head. “Why?”

Tension crinkles the corners of Hannibal’s eyes, the corners of his mouth. “No.”

Will snorts. “Then you’ve carefully curated your truths, Doctor. Arranged them to create a particular impression.”

“You have just described the basic tenets of all human communication,” and Hannibal’s face is blank, blank. He nudges at the back of Will’s head, and Will lifts it. It snaps the thread of eye contact, but Hannibal’s gaze prickles along the back of his neck. Still, he retrieves the wooden bowl he uses for rinsing, dips it into the water. Will leans back again, closes his eyes. A little bit of cowardice, a little bit of practicality. Hannibal is careful when he rinses Will’s hair section by section, but he is not a wizard; stray drops of water trace down Will’s face. A pause. Two fingers come to rest lightly on his cheek. “I find this particular ritual satisfying in the extreme. Do you wish to make a change?” and Hannibal’s voice is carefully even. There is a reluctance, though, almost wariness. No wonder. Even Will is not sure that he’s not laying traps.

Still, Will shakes his head no, the motion dislodging Hannibal’s fingers and knocking his head gently against the rinsing bowl. “Then it is change itself that has unsettled you.”

“Maybe that’s part of it,” and it feels like an admission. Silence, and the pressure of Hannibal’s eyes on him. Motion on the stool - Hannibal is shifting so he can watch Will’s face more closely. The insistence, the pressure of it, drags his eyes open. So much for the easy way. Under Hannibal’s gaze, the harsh light, it’s hard to find the words. Even the concepts seem slippery.

“Liminal spaces are often the birthplace of clarity,” Hannibal offers. Has there always been such an overt caress in the way he applies conditioner, in the way his hands stroke down Will’s back to ensure that he has been thoroughly rinsed?

Will holds a hand out for some body wash. “I don’t feel clear.” Hannibal’s gaze prickles against him as he scrubs his legs, his belly, splashes enough to rinse. Will can feel it as surely as the fingers that work the second rinse through his hair. “I feel exposed. Like someone’s kicked over the rock I’ve been living under.”

Hannibal’s lips quirk down, just this side of rueful. “A telling analogy. What is it that you feel cannot survive exposure to the light?” His hands are steady as he helps Will to rise.

Will swallows, takes a moment to consider as Hannibal smoothes the towel over Will’s back and shoulders. He relinquishes the towel to Will so he can dry his own hips and belly while Hannibal retrieves Will’s robe. His legs will be allowed to drip-dry like always. It wrings a chuckle out of him - these arbitrary lines, distinctions without differences, that they have erected. “Seems we’ve buried a lot of things between us.”

A searching look, a quirk of the lips. “And you wish to disturb the graves.”

Will smiles, just a little painful, and lets his tiredness settle more obviously on his shoulders. “Maybe not tonight.”

“This is not a very inspiring setting,” Hannibal allows, an uncharacteristic reprieve. Perhaps he, too, is unsettled. He’s certainly tired. It shows, not too obviously, but there’s a slight slowness to him, extra care in his posture and motion. What a hell of a day.

There is something to be said for ritual. This last piece of it feels like the capstone it’s meant to be as Hannibal sets about drawing his bath. It’s a short process - shallow by necessity, water level well below the edge of his bandages. Hannibal foregoes the bath oil. He’d rather have the lingering traces in the tub, both of it and of Will. Hannibal’s preference for the second bath is not a mystery, for all that it does allow time for Will’s hair to dry without the crazy patterns that emerge in it if he sleeps on it wet.

Hannibal has two good arms and can lower himself in. Like Will, his legs are too long for the borrowed bathtub. Unlike Will, he splays his knees out to rest against the sides of the tub. No pressure to acknowledge it, not now. All the words are wrung out of them already. 

Will takes his seat on the stool, and Hannibal wordlessly presses a washcloth into his hand. A replacement, then, for the sponge. Smart - this, at least, will dry overnight. It’s also much more tactile, much less of a barrier between hand and back. He snorts and Hannibal makes a little hmmm-ing noise, but doesn’t press for real speech. Good thing. He doesn’t know what he’d say.

It’s not easy, not quite. It had been so simple, almost thoughtless. Bruises, cuts and bandages, old bones and old scars. The mitigation of pain. But then there’s the way Hannibal unfurls under his touch, all animal content, so encompassing it usually snares Will in and sets him on the path to sleep.

Not today. Today he can’t help but prod at the edges of it, and edges there must be. Now, here, it feels… foolish to believe that this is more satisfaction than cruel half-measure, that he’s been hoarding contentment and ignoring what it covers. In Hannibal. In himself.

It’s a jolt when Hannibal’s fingers reach up to cover his own, tense against the man’s shoulder. “Relax,” he murmurs. “That is the purpose of the exercise.”

Will raises an eyebrow. “And here I thought the purpose was to get you clean.” A chuckle, wrenched out of a pit in the depths of him; it would take so much more than a bath to accomplish that.

Hannibal’s gaze is lazy, half-lidded. He doesn’t look like a man denied. “A good ritual serves more than one purpose.”

He allows Will his silence. Small mercies, grains of rice against cruelties large and small. It’s close and quiet as Will shuffles the stool forward, the better to prop his elbow against the rim of the tub. Hannibal exhales and settles his head into the hand on Will’s bad side, reaches for the small towel draped over the side of the tub. He is… calm. The pettiness of the day has leeched out of him and he’s loose as he always is in the tub.

Will stays silent as he takes the towel, now soaked, from Hannibal, pets it gently through his hair to wet it. Will strokes the hair back from Hannibal’s face and Hannibal’s eyes slip closed, his mouth slack. The shampoo bottle is thoughtfully placed, easy to grasp with his free hand. Hannibal sighs and settles as Will lathers him up. His fingernails are too long, and Hannibal’s hair is fine enough to catch in them. Hannibal seems to like the sensation of it, shifting his head further into Will’s hand.

Rinsing is a tricky process. Better not to risk water running down Hannibal’s back and into the still-raw wound. Better to coax the shampoo out little by little, one pass of the washcloth at a time. It’s slow, and familiar in its slowness. The world is almost steady by the time he’s done.

Hannibal smiles up at him, small and slow, when Will presses the washcloth back into his hand. Small splashes behind him as he readies Hannibal’s robe and towel, the materials he needs to change the bandage. It’s not long before Hannibal is beside him, toweling brisk and sure. He doesn’t flinch when Will pulls the tape on his gauze pad. Good. Even with all the strain of the day, there’s no blood, no sign of infection.

Hannibal finishes taping up the wound on his belly, half-turns toward Will. “All in one piece.” Will musters up a smile for that, there and gone again. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your cheek.”

“I’m not that lucky,” Will mutters.

The hint of a fond smile. “A rather subpar example.” And then he’s fishing around in the Dopp kit, washing his hands, advancing on Will with the little bottle of antiseptic they use on his cheek. 

Will finds himself backing up without meaning to. One step, two, three backwards across the steam-damp tile and then the back of his legs hit the edge of the tub and Hannibal’s right there, hand on his waist to steady him. “Take care,” he murmurs, and sticks two fingers in Will’s mouth with no further preamble. Will can’t help it, goes rigid. His instinct is to bite, but oh, that wouldn’t go well. Not justified, either, not really, not when Hannibal is coaxing his mouth open wider and peering inside, too close but with good purpose, or what passes for it. The hand on his waist moves up to his jaw and Hannibal looms even closer. Will’s tongue is too big in his mouth, sluggish as the rest of him. He can’t breathe, can’t move. Nowhere to go. Heat and salt and the bitter sting of the antiseptic, the hot heavy pressure of his presence and his fingers, large and inescapable. It takes longer than it should.

Hannibal’s slow to withdraw his fingers. His eyes catch on the blood and the drool on them, just for a second but Will sees it. He raises an eyebrow, but Hannibal’s face stays serene. He wouldn’t, anyway. The antiseptic would ruin the taste. “Let that set,” he orders, as though Will doesn’t know that by now.

The way he’s bunched up really is pulling on his bad shoulder. A deep breath. Another. He closes his eyes but it just intensifies the feeling of being watched, surrounded. Open again, and Hannibal’s at the sink, scrubbing his hands and preparing both of their toothbrushes. Once Hannibal has decided the antiseptic is sufficiently set, he hands Will’s paste-laden toothbrush to him. It’s habit, really, to settle in alongside Hannibal and begin the now-painful process of cleaning his teeth. Today, though, he’s caught by their reflection in the mirror. He looks like he’s been through it, hollow and ragged, bloody and mean. Hannibal’s newly-restored good humor melts off his face in increments as he catches Will’s eyes in their shared reflection.

They spit, one after the other. Will stares at the mess in the sink for a moment before he remembers to turn the water on. Hannibal wants to touch him, is almost vibrating with it. It’s more onerous than the touch itself would be. Some of the pressure is relieved, at least, when Hannibal intones, “Tomorrow is another day.”

It’s so incongruous that it startles a choked little chuckle out of Will. One hell of a Scarlett O’Hara.

Hannibal’s eyes spark with warmth again, even if he’s a little mystified. It’s only a couple steps across the hall to the bedroom. Hannibal has laid out their pajama pants on the bed. Will pulls his on and sheds the robe, lowers himself onto the bed before Hannibal can make it around to help him. Not tonight. Still, he works his way under the cheap covers on his usual side. Hannibal notices. Of course he does. Will closes his eyes to discourage further commentary. It’s not like there’s another bed in this place. Not like they haven’t slept side by side all this time, not like the breathing snuffling organic sounds Hannibal puts off in his sleep are the only thing that convinces him he’s alive half the time.

A long, uncomfortable period where he stews in the truth of it and Hannibal just lingers, eyes heavy on him like he knows what’s going on inside. “You coming?” Of course Will breaks first.

“Soon,” and Hannibal’s voice is hushed. He lingers for another small eternity before gliding off to do god knows what.

He’s asleep, or close enough to it. Fitful, maybe, but it’s a strange place. It’s not long, or maybe it is, before the bed dips and Will slips right on down, down into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh, sorry this chapter delay was so long! I'd like to say it's because life happened so hard, which is a big part of it! I had all these things to write for Christmas exchanges, and then it was the holidays, and then I was cruise-directing a delightful posse of nine of my pals through a long weekend at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter.
> 
> And then, of course, this chapter kicked me in the shins. It's ~really long~ compared to the others in this series, but I felt like it was one complete scene. And it took me a couple of times before my spider senses let me feel like I hit on the correct angle. I knew there was bathtime, I knew Will was newly troubled by same. But the particulars of that troubledness took me some fits and starts to work out in my head. Not to mention Hannibal. I think he really enjoys a sort of.... not-immediately-sexual tactility. He seems to pet everyone's hair quite a lot, all the more so if they have come behind the veil with him. And of course Bathtime With Bedelia was sort of the genesis of this chapter. When are things ~not~ a creepy power play with Hannibal, but yikes, those scenes threw my shoulders into a permanent NOPE position.
> 
> Anyway. I have a lot of thoughts on where both of their heads are at, but I think it's sot of.... bad practice to give in to the urge to overexplain. I hope this comes off as convincing and not just Everyone Avoiding The Obvious In An Irritating Fashion. I'd love to hear from folks, critically or positively. And I am ~so here~ to chatter about this story or the series or whatever in the comments or on tumblr.
> 
> Speaking of which! I want to thank the kind folks who have been letting me bounce ideas off their heads over the past few weeks. I didn't ask permission to name names, but gosh, it was such a huge help.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy! And see you again, much sooner. :D


	5. Chapter 5

Brambles and brambles and brambles and the sharp salt sweat of the sea. A great undulating thicket pressing around and above him, slithering boot-black and they way they glisten, even in the barely-there moonlight, the way they seem to move, tearing at his back and his arms and his feet, god, one snagged in his mouth, thick and bitter and painful. The only respite is stillness but that can’t last. The knife-sharp twigs, rocks maybe, jagged against his belly and he’s weak and he’s tired and his shaking muscles already burn. The wet boom echo of steps, forgotten-but familiar hot breath, the rustle and stench of the stag, approaching his dripping prison, the intent to touch and it will hurt, it will _hurt_.

The world shifts beneath him. Hands out to brace and oh, that was a mistake. Thick oozing darkness plagues his vision and it’s not the world, shifting, no, but the bed, and he’s injured, here, in the half-waking world where his shoulder doesn’t bend like that. He doesn’t quite stifle the cry. But he blinks and adjusts and there’s Hannibal, the roiling black menace of him half-uncoiled at the bedroom door, and Chiyoh, hands out in front of her, plunged into the pulsing wet dark. He’d warn her but he’s lost his voice, throat still coated with it. Her hands, though. Her hands.

She notices him noticing and steps back, just a bit, drops her arms. Her shoulders are straight. “You are already late,” she says, eyes sweeping over the both of them, and then something more to Hannibal in a language Will can’t understand.

He’s awake now, or something like it, and the drip-drop darkness is gone and there’s Hannibal, a blank wall, listening and blinking, until there is a lull. “A moment,” he replies, in English, and half turns toward Will. His eyes are terribly soft and there’s a tension in his hands. The desire to help, and isn’t that a laugh, though it sits as though it’s natural on him. “I’m ok,” Will manages, and the corners of Hannibal’s mouth flicker unhappily. His heart’s still going double-time and he’s wet - sweat, just sweat - and exposed and, “I just, I… Give me a minute.” He stays steady, at least, under their measuring eyes. Hannibal thins his mouth but half-nods and ushers Chiyoh out into the hallway and that’s good. A moment, a moment to breathe.

Been a while. Nightmares, of course, that’s a given, but not like this, intense and familiar and more real than the current contours of his waking life. Still, he gets up, smoothes the covers down best as he can one-handed. Poor girl who lives here will work for the rental money this time - the sheets are dark where he lay.

The steps are familiar, regardless of setting. Deep breaths. Slow steps to the bathroom. The rush of the taps, sharp slap of water on his face, the tug of his fingers in his hair. More deep breaths, two three four, and then it’s time to flip the lightswitch. He has the look of a man who’s been pulled through dark thorns.

There’s a light glowing in front room, the ebb and flow of voices. Dark hallway but the light’s on in the bedroom and the closet’s empty. He packed the suitcase, at least, so the clothes laid out on the bed weren’t chosen for him even if the presumption of it still sits like stingers under his skin. Boxers and jeans, a white linen shirt in deference to the heat and sun of the Florida oceans. His sneakers are missing, a pair of brand new boat shoes in their place. He snorts, and is immediately sorry - it hurts, a little. Well. At least they’re practical.

He wants to linger, badly, so he doesn’t let himself, just hitches up the pants and grits his teeth and threads his arm though the sleeve of the shirt, the good first then the busted. His fingers are clumsy with sleep and the buttons take some doing but there you have it. It’s easier to just shove the sleeves up and that’s that. Off to the races.

The hallway is too short. He wants to melt right back into its darkness - they turn toward him, the both of them, eyes scraping him up and down. “Coffee,” he says to the doorframe behind them. Good enough excuse to retreat.

“There is not time,” and Chiyoh’s matter-of-fact about it, at least.

“We will have some on the boat,” and there’s something there, something like upset, welling under Hannibal’s evenness.

Will nods, anyway, and casts around for the suitcase. Tucked against Hannibal’s leg, and then it’s in his hand. The set of his jaw is stubborn. Chiyoh is already up, opening the door, garment bag in her hand. Awfully early in the day to wind up useless.

Still, he goes. Dim lights in that dire hallway, and he’s still only half inside the moment. The shirt scrapes against his skin, and it’s good, keeps him here, keeps his feet close enough to control and send step by step down the stairs. His hands clench and unclench - nothing to hold on to, nothing to tear.

Their car’s running right out front of the door. He slides the back door open, the better to clear out some space for himself. It’s empty, already. Chiyoh, probably. He lets his eyes fall closed, splays his hands around the edge of the seat. His companions are quiet when they enter the car. The sharp sound of an engine starting, the lurch of movement. Woozy and dozy and more than half asleep, but his breath’s sticking in his throat and he can’t go under. Eventually he opens his eyes. Wishes he hadn’t. “We’re under a wounded sky,” and his voice is too low, too rough, raw around phantom thorns.

Eyes on him. He flicks his gaze up; Hannibal’s, taking advantage of the front-seat mirror. His lips are thin, his eyes tense, though his voice stays calm. “A lovely description of the ancient omens of the sea.”

Chiyoh’s voice, neutral and even. Controlled. “We may yet outrun the rain.”

More tension, then, just around the edges of Hannibal’s eyes. A sticky silence settles as Chiyoh makes a sharp right. A small marina looms ahead, the dark shades of boats against the red-ragged sky.

He gets his feet underneath him, out to door quick enough to block Hannibal’s path to the suitcase and seize it himself. So much the better - Hannibal is not standing quite straight. He doesn’t look pained, but he must be feeling it. The weight of the suitcase presses Will into the ground, back into his body.

Chiyoh’s eyes are sharp on him but she says nothing, just turns and sets out toward one of the boats. Will follows quick as he can. The back of his neck prickles - the crackle of footsteps behind him, hot weight of a gaze. Better to fall back, get in step with Hannibal, the here and the now.

It helps to turn outward, though he can’t like what he sees. Hannibal’s movements are smooth, but to Will’s eye it’s obvious that he’s favoring his bad side. Nothing to say. The damage is already done.

“Come, just here.” Chiyoh’s voice jars his eyes forward. She’s already boarded the boat. Well. Boat’s the wrong word. It’s a yacht, a pretty big one, not too new.

“That’ll stand up against a little rain,” he says. Hannibal’s frown deepens.

No time to dig at that, not with Chiyoh’s impatient stance, hand already out for the suitcase. He passes it over and gets himself on board. She watches, ready, but doesn’t offer help. He nods his appreciation, but can’t hold her eyes. She’s dismissed him, on to Hannibal now. He makes the unsteady step from dock to deck with something like grace, even though it must cost him.

Will feels steady - steadier - with the hard floor of the deck beneath him. The yacht’s broad and built strong, big but not ridiculous. Enough wear to suggest that it can take more. Chiyoh stops him before he can take the real measure of it. “You must go below, and stay there.” It’s not a suggestion.

Hannibal slides light fingers underneath the elbow on the bad side and Will goes where he’s lead. A few steps down, not too many. The overwhelming impression of dark wood, brass fixtures glint ruddy in the red half-dawn. “Coffee, I think, and then we will find our way,” and he has to strain, almost, to hear Hannibal.

They come to rest in a neat little kitchen, stocked with all sorts of power-drain gadgets. Hannibal releases him and Will shuts his eyes. The sway and smell of the ocean drive some of the remnants of his bad awakening away. The familiar domestic din helps, too, and the sharp smell of coffee beans. The sound of footsteps and he opens his eyes. The sharp weight of Hannibal’s attention chases some of the shadows out of his periphery.

“Dreams are cartographers of the inner landscape that remains hidden in the light of the day,” and Hannibal’s eyes are on him, steady, neglectful of his cup of coffee. “Tell me, Will. Where have you been visiting?”

Will’s face spasms into what must be an awful parody of a smile. He takes a sip of his coffee to cover it. Too little, too late. “I saw an old friend,” he offers, and he can feel the feathered stag’s hot breath on the back of his neck.

He turns away, though he can still feel Hannibal’s eyes on him. Exploration is enough of an excuse, for now.

But Hannibal’s picked today to be persistent, stepping too close to his side. “Anyone I know?” and the lightness in his tone is false, false.

A chuckle wrests its way out of him, almost forceful enough to count as a cough. “Your guess is as good as mine,” and that’s a lie.

Hannibal knows. He always does. And now he’s using silence, one of his favorite weapons, but Will can’t give him what he wants, this time. The words won’t come, slippery and elusive as the stag itself. “Why are we down here?” and it’s a clumsy deflection but a real question.

Hannibal leaves the silence long enough to make him feel it. Eventually the lines at the corners of his mouth settle deeper. Faint guilt prickles at Will, followed by a quick rush of anger. “Stay below, she said.” I’m not useless, he thinks, and that’s never been one of Hannibal’s errors. God knows he’s not in top form but hell, he could do something, even just stand at the till and let the salt and the breeze and the space clear his head.

Hannibal lifts his coffee, but doesn’t take a sip. Tension in the lines of him, thwarted motion. It uncoils into sure steps, Hannibal twining around him and into the living area, all dark leather and darker wood. Will’s antsy enough to follow. 

There’s nervousness, almost, or something like it, threaded through Hannibal’s posture. Subtle, yes, but it jars him like the light at the onset of a migraine. Could he have seen it a month ago, a year ago, before he’d been so close that Hannibal was a separate second skin? He can’t help it, he’s in motion like it’ll do any good, like there’s any chance the tension could be snapped by something as simple as motion and the drag of wood and leather under his fingers. His fingers snag on an antique magnifying glass mounted on a compact little work-desk and he knows, knows without looking, that the drawers are full of fishhooks and tools. Hannibal at a market, running his fingers over beads and twine. Long fingers pausing while plucking fowl, setting the best feathers aside in little paper packets. 

The heavy leather desk chair is built to swivel, aligned just across from a twin, this one backed by bookshelves and a little antique phonograph. The room darkens and blurs, sinking under the weight of memories and other places. Just having conversations, sharing space and breath and silence. “How long have you had this boat?” and his voice, the low rasp of it, isn't right at all.

“Long enough,” and there’s a terrible still softness in Hannibal’s eyes, in the way his mouth kicks up at the corner with some removed version of regret. Building my metaphors, he thinks, and something beneath his ribs snaps, unmoored. They’re easier to take than my dreams.

There’s a well below them, dark and roiling and bottomless as the ocean. There’s a well and Will falls right into it, sinks into the roar. His dry lips snag on Hannibal’s when he pulls back and Hannibal looks _lost,_ somehow smaller and Will won’t be responsible for that so he plunges back in and this time he feels it, Hannibal’s hands clenching the sleeve of his shirt, tiny soft movements of his mouth and the way the boat rocks beneath them out of synch with the way they tremble.

His knees are water and he can’t look, can’t see what it is he’s done here and for once they’re in perfect accord, sinking back to the sofa tucked up close and he takes Hannibal’s head, his jagged soft mouth and nestles it into the curve of his throat just where he did for the Dragon, dry lips on the thrum of Will’s pulse and it should feel like threat but it feels like a fixed point in the gale and there’s nothing to do but hold on and wait for the end of the roar of the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Breathes.* WHEW. I would absolutely LOVE to hear your thoughts on this one, folks. I noodled around with it more than is my usual habit and hearing how it worked or didn't work for you would be a real treat. I know it's been a long, wordy journey just to get to this trainwreck of guarded closeness, and I can't thank you enough for your kind comments and kudos and willingness to stick with me through the sloooooowest build. And sorry about the very long wait! I kind of took a sharp uptick in other fandom activities, and to be honest was a little worried about sticking the landing for this PARTICULAR CLUTCH FOR BALANCE, so thank you for your forbearance and I will do my best not to make this a habit!
> 
> SPEAKING OF TREATS, I would be utterly remiss if I didn't thank the lovely and amazing wellntruly, who has been kind enough to engage in a number of depth-discussions of characterization and possibility with me! [If you aren't reading her recaps over on tumblr, you are missing out on a ROLLERCOASTER OF HILARITY AND DESPAIR.] I can't overstate her extreme awesomeness, or the degree of influence her clear thinking and kindness have exerted on this story, my understanding of the series, and my ever-growing enjoyment of the Fannibal Lifestyle. :D Our discussions have made all of my wildest fic-writerly dreams a reality. In addition, she's coaxed me into trying my hand at meta discussions over at confusedkayt.tumblr.com - please feel free to pop by if that might be of interest to you! Or hell, holler at me in the comment section - I'm always thrilled to toss theories back and forth, here or anywhere else.

**Author's Note:**

> Hannibal likes his little jokes. The intertubes tell me that Maksim Volkov means, more or less, “The Great Wolf.” I figured he’d fish for a Russian-ish pseudonym, just like he did in Antipasto.
> 
> Oh man, I am super excited to be writing this! While I'm at it, I wanted to thank all of y'all for the kudos and comments on the start of this series! What a lovely way to ease into a fandom! The warm welcome and fun discussions helped me grow this thing in my mind beyond the original snapshot-style "Closer To God" and I'm really enjoying writing a potential future where they CAN JUST KISS ALREADY OMG, GET IT TOGETHER. Thanks so much for your kind encouragement!
> 
> Anyway. Hope you enjoy, and I'd love to chitchat with you about this story or the TV series or whatever if you feel like it!


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